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100 word fiction

A second story for Friday Fictioneers especially for DR. I know he’s out there.

Changing the Chorus
by T. Delaplain

Regardless of the tempo or cadence, the chorus remained the same, “I’m not ready.” Their coffee dates and long lunches were punctuated by stiff hugs and brief stolen kisses; neither knowing quite how to change their shared lyrics of grief.

The first bouquet arrived with a CD of arias, the second a sterling silver treble cleft. The third, a dozen roses and an embossed invitation.

“Dinner tomorrow night in Florence, pack an overnight bag, we can buy anything else you need. ❤️ Let us sing a new beginning.”

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Photo courtesy of Dale Rogerson’s real life and completely unrelated to my fictional tale, in case you were worried.

Welcome Neighbor
by T. Delaplain

A soft cough and a flash of Sunday best fabric announced the committee’s arrival; midwestern hospitality and a basket of freshly baked welcome. She stopped unpacking the life she no longer recognized; boxes full of illusion and stifling small town safety.

She debated her options before the first tentative knock. Her instructions were to, “blend in”, but her instincts said, “run.” She tucked her gun into the elastic of her polyester stretch pants, patted her new permanent waves and turned the knob.

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Photo credit @ Sandra Crook from her travels down the French waterways.

A Sequel for Mr. Edwards
by T. Delaplain

It had been Mr. Edwards idea to help Renee write “his” sequel from the quant château in Provence. In fact the sequel had been entirely his idea. The promise had been extorted from her during a fierce re-write; the result of a tussle over the laptop and a tumble on the divan. Mr. Edwards, a minor character in her first novel had definitely become a distraction in the sequel. Her hand hestitated over the delete button.

“No Mr. Edwards, I do not see you as a seductive rogue, perhaps a stable lad in chapter 13? Never forget, Sir. Your place is on the page.”

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Mr. Edwards can’t seem to stay where he is written or stay out of my flash fiction. A distraction indeed! If you’re curious about this literary terrorist you could read any of these flashes.Of All the Gin JointsExit The Scoundrel A Novel Romance

Seven lay resting: too early, too late, born still, the measles, poisoned blood. Those that God left, the Great War took away. Wandering through the stones and crosses stepping over a fresh mound of turned soil through a haze of lilies, she offered praise and forgiveness. Arms finally full, now she could care for her babies.

An offering for Friday Fictioneers. We will give you 100 words to say your peace.

You folded the fuselage into a triangle then tightened the binder paper into a nose. You licked a finger and raised it to the sky; a northern breeze, good visibility. Precise dirt smudged creases, torn into perfect straight lines, you fashioned the wings to maximize lift. Continue Reading

“It’s all in the wrist, Trace.” My Dad’s line whipped behind him, slowly returned and walked across the calm water in a lazy “S”. I swore as my tangled fly drove its hook into my thumb.

“Try again, it’ll come.” He handed me his tattered creel. This relic of his youth held all his truths. They had shared the silent hours of meditation, the lonely farewells to his fishing buddies and the rapture of just being.

The fly rod, his staff.
The river, his bible.
The mountain, his chapel.

I recast with perfect pitch and rhythm.

Today’s sermon,”patience”.

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Some stories write themselves. A voice takes you along for the ride and you write. My Dad was a grand story teller and his advice was always given by example. This is his story. He had no use for churches but had an incredible reverence for our natural world and wild spaces. There was never a problem that couldn’t be solved with a fishing rod in hand. He believed that the best stories are about the one that got away, that the water always flows under the bridge so there’s no time for regrets and there’s always another opportunity around the bend. He believed in feeding any neighbor in need and often fished with that in mind. He had endless patience when teaching me how to fish or do long division. I still look to him for answers and sometimes those answers come in strange 100 word packages.

Take a seat in the chair and write a 100 word story for Friday Fictioneers.

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I'm a writer and a physician. I write about food and travel at MyBajaKitchen.com. I write fiction and medical narrative at TraceyDelaplainMD.com. You'll always find me near the water in Baja Mexico or Northern Nevada.